with hurried animation] that with Him was connected the secret of your
life!"

"All this I felt," answered Glyndon, in a trembling voice, "the first
time I was in his presence. Though all around me was gay,--music,
amidst lamp-lit trees, light converse near, and heaven without a cloud
above,--my knees knocked together, my hair bristled, and my blood
curdled like ice; since then he has divided my thoughts with thee."

"No more, no more," said Isabel, in a stifled tone; "there must be the
hand of Fate in this. I can speak no more to you now; farewell."

She sprang past him into the house and closed the door. Glyndon did not
dare to follow her, nor, strange as it may seem, was he so inclined.
The thought and recollection of that moonlight hour in the gardens, of
the strange address of Zicci, froze up all human passion; Isabel
herself, if not forgotten, shrank back like a shadow into the recesses
of his breast. He shivered as he stepped into the sunlight, and
musingly retraced his steps into the more populous parts of that
liveliest of Italian cities.




CHAPTER VIII.


It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one of
which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of the palace.
Is not Art a wonderful thing? A Venetian noble might be a fribble or an